Hiya Joe

Yesterday I tried to ring my mate, who I haven't seen for a while -- let's call him Paddy O'Grady because he has Irish ancestry and a good Irish name.

He's married to -- let's call her Jo, short for Joanna Mary Colleen Kelly. She, too, is of solid Irish stock.

Ring! Ring!

"Hello?" A woman's voice.

"Hi, Jo?" I inquire. "Pip Wilson. How ya going?"

"You're wanting Joe is it?" the woman asks. She seems to have a strong Irish accent. I'm confused. She sounds more confused. This woman sounds old enough to be one of their mothers. Maybe it's Mrs O'Grady. Or Mrs Kelly.

"I'm actually after Paddy," I say.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Pip Wilson."

"Pete Wilson?"

"No, it's Pip."

"You'll be wanting Joe."

"Actually, I'd prefer to speak to Padd-- oh, ok. You've gone. La lala la la."

I can just hear the old lady say, "There's a Pete Wilson on the phone for you. Do ye know a Peter Wilson?"

"Me? No, I don't think so."

"Well, ye'd better talk to him."

After a while, a male voice comes on the phone.

"Hello?" He says. He sounds a bit like Paddy, I guess. Maybe Paddy has a cold. Maybe he's playing a trick on me. Paddy and I like to pull each other's legs.

What twilight zone am I in?

"G'day, mate. It's Pip. Did you get my message I left at your work? I'm ringing about Jerry. Have you seen him? Is he OK?" I ask.

The bloke says he doesn't know a Jerry and I must have the wrong number. His name's Joe. We compare numbers -- I'm out by one digit. Can't read my own handwriting. I apologize and try to explain my confusion.

"No worries, mate," he says. "Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket."

I'm still wondering what the old lady thought when I asked for Joe. I bet she wondered how I knew he was there. Joe told me he just happened to be briefly visiting his mother, who lives in the same suburb as Paddy and Jo.